


Not a Bad Guy

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Underage Sex, implied stancest, just some fucked up shit okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 15:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13484631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Dipper is so much like Ford. It hurts Stan at first.___________Stan near does a spit take the first time he gets a Christmas card from the Pines family (with a note on the back explaining why the Jewish family was sending a Christmas card at all. Stan could admire a kid angling for more presents. Smart.) Mabel is adorable, plump cheeks bright red and smiling broadly enough to show off her missing teeth. The boy though. It’s like looking at a time capsule, seeing his Sixer smiling tightly, holding the girl’s hand. He’s got the same mop of hair, same nose, same shrewd, curious eyes. It makes Stan’s heart jump and his gut sink and Stan doesn’t send a card back, but he does send gifts: a doll and book on science.





	Not a Bad Guy

Stan near does a spit take the first time he gets a Christmas card from the Pines family (with a note on the back explaining why the Jewish family was sending a Christmas card at all. Stan could admire a kid angling for more presents. Smart.) Mabel is adorable, plump cheeks bright red and smiling broadly enough to show off her missing teeth. The boy though. It’s like looking at a time capsule, seeing his Sixer smiling tightly, holding the girl’s hand. He’s got the same mop of hair, same nose, same shrewd, curious eyes. It makes Stan’s heart jump and his gut sink and Stan doesn’t send a card back, but he does send gifts: a doll and book on science.

 

Stan’s a wreck getting the Shack ready for the kids. He’s always been careful about the basement but he tightens security to the maximum; hides every scrap of weirdness he can under the shittiness of his mystery kitsch. Soos tries to calm him down but everyday, every hour, every second the kids get closer he gets wound tighter and tighter until even Wendy is sniping back at him. The day the kids arrive he takes a covert shot of whiskey before driving out to the bus stop; his cataracts are gonna take him off road before the booze does. 

It's a kick in the teeth when the kids stumble off the Greyhound, dragging suitcases and road weariness behind him. The girl, Mabel, beams at him, smile bright with silver braces and she wastes no time rushing in and hugging Stan like she's know him her whole life. It's both unsettling and sweet and it reminds Stan of Soos, so Stan shoves her off with a grunt.

“Watch it, kid.” He grumbles. Mabel is unphased, grinning ear to ear. The boy, Dipper, scowls at him. And, damn, if the kid looked like Ford them he also looks like Stan (and Stan wore that face a lot at that age, glaring down anyone to look at Ford funny and getting more than one black eye for his trouble). Stan scowls back, refusing to feel anything but annoyance as he herds them both into the El Diablo. He listens to Mabel gush and gasp, can't help the snide old man commentary. Nothing dampens her spirit and Stan knows he's gonna get along with her great. In contrast, Dipper reads and the backseat, mumbling little replies and shooting Stan annoyed little glances. Dipper, Stan decides, is a whole nother story.

 

Dipper is more like Ford by the day, enthusiastic about the weird and Stan’s heart sinks every time the kid tries to convince him of zombies and gnomes. Stan can hear Sixer’s voice echoing everything outta Dippers mouth and, maybe, he snaps at the kid a little harshly, tries to silence that painfully nostalgic feeling. He'll admit he's a little terrified that the kid’ll get hurt. He's terrified that he'll lose Dipper the same way be lost Ford, so he keeps him at arm's length, works him hard. Dipper hates him for it and that stings like a bitch, but it keeps Dipper safe.

It keeps him safe from Stan.

 

The kids tumble outta Stan’s head and he wants to scream; wants to shake them and demand what they saw. But they don't treat him different,  don’t rush to the basement or the police. Instead, of all things, because he's Stanley-fucking-Pines, the universe's personal punching bag, Dipper smiles shyly at him, like he knows a secret.

Stan goes to the basement and drinks; drinks to forget. To forget his brother who had loved him once and then tossed him away like a spent whore. To forget the portal staring at him like an empty eye socket. To forget the yellow demon that pops up like a coldsore to taunt him and promise him things Stan wanted enough to taste. But Stan knows a con when he sees one and spits on the triangle everytime. 

He drinks to forget the soft little hands that wrapped around him briefly; the press of baby fat cheeks against his gut. The smile Stan hasn't seen outside of a photograph in fifty years. He drinks to forget the ghost of his brother sleeping warm and Technicolor in his attic. 

He drinks until his hand starts to idly palm his crotch. He's too old and drunk to get hard, but the pleasure is gentle and soft like Vaseline on a camera lens, blurring out the sharp heat of arousal into something warm and slow. 

He hasn’t gotten off in a while. The portal’s been a huge part of his life; it takes all night and he pays the bills by day. And now with the kids under the same roof it seems crass and self indulgent; a pleasure he should deny himself until Ford is home and the kids are safely away from his influence. But the cheap vodka is doing its job and the portal is becoming more humorous than tragic as his sleepy dick sends little happy signals to his brain. 

He tells himself he won’t go under his waistband. He won’t go past some groping as he lets himself remember his brother before the portal, before the science fair. Back when they were both young and bright with potential, Ford outshining Stan by miles. He remembers looking at the girlie magazines with his brother, tissues at hand and crisco surreptitiously scooped onto a paper towel that felt awful but got the job done. He remembers Ford’s lidded eyes roaming over the simpering models, his red face and redder dick shining with precum and grease. He remembers huffing, watch from the corner of his eye as Sixer shoved two fingers in his mouth and bit down to muffle his little grunting cry as he came on the centerfold. Stan had come soon after, trying to sear that sound into his soul.

His dick is getting harder than he thought it would so he reaches down to fondle his balls, the poor things haven’t had this much attention is years. He lets himself grunt, free hand swinging down to take another swig of vodka, spilling it on his shirt. 

The booze makes his brain wander back, back, back to the first time he and Ford had masturbated together. They’d been curious and young; Ford more curious and Stan more young. (Around the twins’ age.) It’d started as a comparison, Ford commenting on the similarities and differences; Stan holding his underdeveloped penis out for Ford. It would have been clinical until Ford had run fingers down the shaft to feel the difference in texture and Stan felt a thrill that would become more familiar as he got older. Ford noticed and decided to keep touching a Stan that held his breath until he came on Ford’s hand with a gasp. Ford had scrunched his nose at the mess and Stan had offered to return the favor. It hadn’t been the last time they’d done that.

Stan gives his balls a roll, massaging them. His head lulls back with a groan, hips thrusting weakly. God, he misses those hands. It’s been decades but he can still feel how small and soft they hand been; how warm and hesitant and curious. Ford had always started clinical but ended by experimenting with how many different sounds he could get his brother to make. Stan takes another gulp of booze, already feeling the guilt try and distract him. Let it drown, he thinks, using the hand not on his balls to thumbs the slit of his cock through the fabric of his boxers the way Ford had the first time he’d discovered how much Stan liked it. A little rough but electric, the arousal starting to cut its way through the booze haze. With it comes thoughts.

Stan wonders if Dipper’s hands would feel like Ford’s. 

Stan groans, squeezes his dick hard enough to hurt, like a punishment. He can’t; he’s sick, he knows he’s sick. You don’t spend fifty years lusting after your brother as a healthy, well adjusted human being. But he can’t. He can’t go down that road; he can’t let his dick drag him deeper into hell. He’s fucked up but he’s not a bad guy.

He’s not a bad guy.

He almost cries when his hand slides under his boxers and tugs. Then he shoves any part of him still clinging to ethics under the booze and lets himself dream. 

Dipper would be nervous, the guy always is, hands sweaty and clammy. They’d be too cold at first, Stan would kiss them, suck on the palms until the kid squirmed. He’d have to go slow, kids come fast. He’d let his hands, wrinkled and rough, stroke down the soft ribes, stroke his knuckles over the soft stomach. He’d do the things he always wanted to do to Ford.

Stan tries to imagine where they are. Not the twins’ room, no. Not the basement or the living room. He decides on the bedroom. He lays Dipper on the mattress, his vest and shirt gone. Stan let’s his hairy knuckles drag past the kid’s stomach and over his shorts. Dipper wouldn’t be fully hard yet, too confused but willing. 

This is when Stan pulls Dipper’s shorts down to his knees and sucks a kiss to the slight bulge in this underwear. Dipper would jolt and gasp, hands flying to his face, mortified as Stan chuckles hot breaths over the damp fabric. Dipper would squirm and Stan would pull his underwear down; he'd kiss the head of Dipper’s small dick, let his tongue flick out in a tease that would have the young body under him trembling. 

In the basement Stan groans, hand sliding up and down his shaft, the other hand he brings to his face and sucks a finger into his mouth.

Stan would be gentle, so gentle. He'd cup the kid’s juvenile sack, just cradling and keeping it warm while his other hand would make a ring with two fingers to hold Dipper steady. Stan debates whether he should go down fast or slow. He settles on fast. 

It's not hard to fit his mouth over Dipper’s dick, it barely brushes the back of his tongue. Dipper’s body arches like a bow and his small hand claw into the sheets. Stan frowns, pulls off and Dipper keens.

“G-grunkle Stan!” He'd whimper, desperate but frustrated. That little grumpiness making him pant at Stan with a glare. Stan chuckles, grabs Dipper’s small hands in his, guides them to his hair (five fingers not six). 

“Hold on,” he rumbles and slowly moves back, eyes never leaving Dipper’s. He licks from balls to head, watches Dipper's flushed face spasm as his head drops back, eyelids fluttering. The kid’s hands fist against Stan’s scalp and he groans before going down, sucking soft and sweet, listening to Dipper’s high gasps and the shift of the bedspread as his head tosses back and forth. 

“ _ Hah, ah, ah,  _ Gru- _ un- _ kle Stan!” He cries and Stan growls around his dick. Dipper shouts and cums, Stan sucks until the boy is almost crying. 

“Good boy,” he cooes; kisses the kid's quivering stomach. 

In the basement Stan gives a final jerk and comes with a grunt. The booze takes the edge off of what would have been a fantastic orgasm. Instead, Stan wipes his hand on his shorts in disgust. 

“Good boy,” he slurs to himself and laughs, head back. It echoes in the basement like a mocking nightmare. He feels the booze wearing off and takes another chug, deciding to sleep in the basement. It's better to stay away from the kids right now.


End file.
